One day I found this sentence in a biography of Burne-Jones, and I jotted it down in my diary and pondered it for a day or two, “I mean by a picture a beautiful romantic dream of something that never was, never will be — in a better light than any light that ever shone — in a land no one can define or remember, only desire — and from forms divinely beautiful.”
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When I read that sentence, I almost fainted. I was a sensitive girl, given to fits of swooning at the slightest opportunity. It was then I realized there was no real difference between poetry and painting, between painting and music. All, in their own ways, sought for God — albeit a God who might not exist — but a God nonetheless. God was beauty. God was longing. God was the fire in the rose.
That’s what I thought then. I was young and foolish.
Art, I found out later, was about making money. Organized Jewry taught me this. Art dealer Paul Rosenberg says, “A painting is only beautiful when it sells.” Jewish president of the Marlborough Gallery, Frank Lloyd, confirms this: “There is only one measure of success in running a gallery: making money.”
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Since Darwin and Freud, there has been a complete “revaluation of all values.” Everything has been turned upside down. We can mostly attribute this parlous state of affairs to the machinations of organized Jewry, in particular to a group of revolutionary thinkers known as the Frankfurt School.
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One of the founders of the Frankfurt School, Georg Lukács, asked rhetorically, “Who will save us from Western civilization?” He began the rescue operation himself, convincing himself that the best way to do this was to create “a culture of pessimism” and “a world that has been abandoned by God.” Cool.
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It will soon become clear to you, if you are a struggling artist, that the art world is dominated by Jews who are only too anxious to bring about this hell on earth. Their control over what now passes for art is as tentacular as it is terrifying. Art has morphed into Anti-Art. “For Jews,” Israel Shamir points out, “their group interest lies in undermining visual art, for they can’t compete with it. Even deeper group interest is to undermine Christianity, their main enemy.”
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You will meet many artists, quite a few of them pliant and accommodating non-Jews, who are prepared to jump through the hoops set before them by their Masters: the ubiquitous Jews lurking in the shadows. The men who call the shots. The men with the money. The men whom the artist must learn to please and flatter if he hopes to get ahead and become rich and famous.
The ambitious artist will find himself drawn inevitably into a Jewish world. He will learn to pepper his conversation with Yiddish phrases. He will never breathe a word of criticism against Israel, no matter what atrocities that country is in the process of committing. He will sneer at Muslims, the Qur’an and the Palestinians. He will find it pays dividends to insult Christianity, the religion of his forefathers. He will mention the Holocaust, whenever possible, with moist eyes; and he will paint as many pictures of Auschwitz as he can, preferably with chimneys belching black smoke.
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Andy Warhol knew better than most how to ingratiate himself with the Jews. His 1980 series, “Ten Portraits of Jews of the Twentieth Century,” features ten portraits of what Warhol referred to as “Jewish geniuses,” one of whom was Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir — the “genius” who said there were no Palestinians, adding with her famous flair for the witty phrase: “How can we return the occupied territories? There is nobody to return them to.” Another “genius” was Sigmund Freud, whom Kevin MacDonald has described as having perpetrated the greatest scientific fraud of the 20th century — a fraud that was very useful in constructing the culture of Western suicide.
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Transvestite potter Grayson Perry — here he is receiving the Turner Prize for his inspired pots — knew his success depended less on his talents than on the advertising genius of his plutocratic patron Charles Saatchi. He was well aware, moreover, that Islamophobia can always be relied on to win friends and influence people in the Judeocentric art world. “The reason I haven’t gone all out to attack Islamism in my art,” he confides fearlessly, “is because I feel real fear that someone will slit my throat.” Avoiding controversial political statements in the interests of discretion, Perry decided to devote his life to producing ceramic pots depicting “explicit scenes of sexual perversion.” It must have been a tough decision.
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As for Andres Serrano with his Piss Christ and Chris Ofili with his dung-bedecked Holy Virgin Mary — the Madonna surrounded by pictures of the female genitals cut from pornographic magazines — both these emotionally immature artists were clearly aware that contempt for Christ and his mother is often pleasing to the Jews.
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Artists? These men are more like circus dogs, trained to jump through hoops and beg for bones from their masters. It’s the men with the money, the Saatchis and the Guggenheims, who crack the whip.